


All Your Travelings Lead to Another

by alyyks



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Eventual Sex, M/M, Post-Star Wars: Revenge of the Sith, Post-Voltron: Legendary Defender Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-27
Updated: 2019-12-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 02:14:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21985732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alyyks/pseuds/alyyks
Summary: 30-something Shiro, retired, divorced, wanting to figure himself out, buys a ship and just starts planet hoping. Sometimes he gets cargo shipment and passengers to pay for fuel and food and it's more freedom and discovery than he has had in a long time. And he stays in that one galaxy for a while, one that seems to be having some troubles (once you headed one rebellion, you can't stop).And then he gets a passenger who calls himself Ben.
Relationships: Obi-Wan Kenobi/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 35
Collections: Obi-Wan Multiverse Collection





	All Your Travelings Lead to Another

**Author's Note:**

  * For [antonomasia09](https://archiveofourown.org/users/antonomasia09/gifts).



> Happy birthday! :D

The droid beeped, fuel line in its manipulator. Shiro waved from the other side of the open cargo door where he was fixing the hydraulic arm, and thanked it. The droid beeped again, sounding pleased, and retreated with the fuel line now shut to its side of the hangar. 

Shiro smiled. 

He had seen many places, since his marriage had ended and he had decided to finally fulfill his dreams and travel the stars. He had gone back to many of the planets Voltron had been welcomed to and some they hadn’t, to new places he remembered from memories not his own and other memories never made by humans. This galaxy though, a bit out of the way, rough and harsh and in the throes of its own rebellion against an emperor, this galaxy felt like meeting a person he had never met before and knew intimately. This place felt right, the story familiar and bittersweet for all its struggles. Shiro could do something here, with his own two hands and his piloting and his staring at the endless skies. 

Not that everything went his way: case in point, the malfunctioning cargo door, and his dwindling stack of credits. He still needed to stock on fresh water and food, dreamed of a bed that did not belong in his cabin and a water shower. With some of the same luck that had always been with him, there would be a couple cargo runs at the cantina, if not exactly legal ones; though the legal system in this part of the galaxy was more lax than further inward. Maybe there would even be passenger runs waiting; Shiro liked those. People liked to talk, and he had learned a lot of about this galaxy, each planet he stopped at and more besides this way.

He liked that he was a complete unknown in this galaxy with its own troubles, just another pilot with a mostly working ship, just Shiro from nowhere. No Champion, no Black Paladin, no Takashi Shirogane. It was freeing, and something he had not realized he needed, to become his own person again.

The hydraulic arm popped back in its housing. Shiro tentatively closed the ramp, opened it again. The lack of problem made him do a pleased noise. He hadn’t fixed it as fast as Hunk or Pidge would have had once upon a time, but he hadn’t done too bad. 

He walked down the ramp, tool belt clicking at his hip. The pit droid at the side of the hangar made an interrogative noise. Shiro waved him off, called an okay. 

A throat clearing made him whirl around on the balls of his feet, right hand rising to the level of his face. 

The person who had startled him didn’t move further than showing their empty hands. “I’m sorry,” they called. They looked human, bearded, hair bleached by the sun, sturdy-looking clothes—they looked like half the people Shiro had met in spaceports and stations around here. “I didn’t mean to startle you. I really thought I had made enough noise to announce myself.” 

Shiro straightened from his stance, tried a smile on. “It’s alright, I must have gotten myself distracted.” 

The other smiled, lowered his hands. There was a small pack at his side. He had used the lingua franca of this place, deceptively called Basic, instead of another of the trade languages Shiro needed a translator for, and the masculine shift of it. Shiro still wasn’t sure how the language worked, or its shifts, or how exactly he could understand and speak it. 

He pushed that last question further away from his thoughts. Now was not the time and place. 

“What can I do for you?” Shiro called to the man. 

“I heard you were looking for a job or paying passengers.”

“‘Word went fast, I just arrived.” 

“Enkka owns the hangars, and she and I go back. I think she wants to see me out of her fur sooner rather than later.” The man smiled, and Shiro both wasn’t immune to the charm, and could see how much the action didn’t reach the man’s eyes. “I’m Ben, by the way.”

“Shiro,” Shiro said in return, and by now he had stepped closer that he could offer his hand for a handshake to Ben. That it was Shiro’s right hand, metal shining dully under the pale sun of this world, being extended gave no pause to Ben. The handshake was firm and fast. “Which way are you looking to go?”

“Off will do for a start—no worries, it’s no troubles following me,” and that smile again, a bit roguish, inviting Shiro in on the joke, “But I’m in no rush to reach my final destination, and I wouldn’t want to keep you from another lucrative contract.”

Shiro raised an eyebrow, quirked his lips. “What’s your final stop, then? I don’t mind having a passenger around for longer, but I might put you to work.” 

“Tatooine.” 

Shiro thought about it. Tatooine was Hutt space, an area known mostly for drug trafficking. Finding a legitimate cargo back out would be harder than here. He named his price in consequence. Ben agreed to it. There would be no bed not attached to his cabin this time, and no time for a water shower. They agreed on a time to leave, and Shiro went off to the main cantina for an additional cargo. He was hoping for something quick, going toward Melida/Daan or Socorro.

Ben’s hand had had callouses, and not the ones coming from firearms. It had reminded him of Keith’s hands and years of swordfighting.   
  
+

“Forgive my curiosity,” Ben said, as they left the planet, two cargo runs heavier, “but who made your hand? The make is impressive, I’ve never seen anything like that.”

Shiro cast a glance at Ben, then looked back at his readouts. The ship wobbled ever so slightly at the hyperspace entrance, and Shiro preferred to keep an eye on it. “A friend,” he answered. “It was something of a group effort.” The original arm, a larger, floating limb that had been optimized for combat, had been Allura’s make, based on ten thousand years old prostheses dug from the Castle of Lion’s databases. After the war, his wedding, his retirement, Pidge had taken it apart and rebuild it into something closer to a normal arm. 

The viewport was washed with the light streaks of the stars, then the blue whorls of hyperspace. 

“Does you friend work on commission? I know a few people who would be interested.”

Shiro had seen many with artificial limbs. He had heard of war and continued struggles gone underground. Ben reminded him, somewhat, of one of the Blades of Marmora, fighters who were never done fighting. 

“They are not with us,” Shiro answered. A half-truth, a half-lie, without going into the possibility of going to other galaxies—without going into the details of Allura’s death. 

“Ah,” Ben said. “ _Nu_ —I am sorry for your loss.” 

Shiro nodded in acknowledgment. He was a bit curious as to the words Ben had almost said automatically. Maybe he’d ask, later. “20 hours to Lok. I don’t have much in the way of entertainment, but feel free to use the gallery.” 

Ben rose from the copilot seat he had taken for the takeoff, inclined his head in thanks. “Thank you, Captain.” 

Shiro shook his head. “Just Shiro, please.”

“Very well,” Ben said, with this corner smile again. He left the cockpit. 

Shiro sighed. Ben was rather handsome, polite. It felt like it had been a long time since Shiro had felt physical attraction. He had thrown himself into exploring and traveling for—how long had it been now, three years? Four? Five and a half since the divorce, five since he had taken a ship and gone, two since he had decided to stay here in this galaxy for a while. 

Ben’s smile never reached his eyes. Looking at him… looking at him Shiro felt like he was looking at himself, barely out of the grasp of the arena, walking wounded and not knowing it. 


End file.
